


only you, always you

by singsungie



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Mentions, Couch Cuddles, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, and very whipped, but - Freeform, it takes some time but they get there, jisung is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 23:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19712161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsungie/pseuds/singsungie
Summary: Minho's lips are tinted red from wine and just as sweet, longing to be kissed, but Jisung pretends he can't see.---or, Jisung takes his time finding the right words and Minho waits, patiently.





	only you, always you

**Author's Note:**

> i had some Feelings and then i wrote this and the Feelings are still there but at least i got something good out of them.  
> big thanks to some absolutely amazing writers like [soof, my favourite beta ever](https://twitter.com/CHANGBlNlE) (also a lovely human being whom i adore) and [emmie](https://twitter.com/hyuckIix) (without her i would have paced my kitchen for three more hours) (also shes just great in general so!!)  
> hope you like this as much as i enjoyed writing it! <33

The world is often cruel in small, silent ways; like when a door slams shut before your hand reaches it or when someone eats the ice-cream you've been saving for later. Like how Jisung can make words bend and fold, can layer a metaphor over a metaphor and give every syllable a new meaning and yet is unable to tell the boy next to him he loves him.

They're sitting on a porch swing in a garden. It's the end of summer and the trees are lush and green, dripping with rain that passed minutes ago. The wind twirls their leaves and shakes the water off and every now and then Minho kicks his feet a little and the swing moves again.

They sit for a while, until the sun goldens the treetops; they sit in silence, one that is comfortable and yet not fully wanted.

Jisung feels as if he's shaking, just like those leaves, heart fluttering like the wings of birds high in the sky, up and down, a beat and a pause. And yet, he's still as a statue, eyes trained on a red rose, its head soaked and heavy. He has his fingers on the painted wood, warm from his touch, and so has Minho, and they're so close that if you stood just a few steps away, you'd say they're touching.

Minho turns his head towards Jisung and nudges their shoulders together. His hand shifts but it's the wrong way and the distance widens. 

"Something on your mind?" Minho asks and when Jisung looks into his eyes, they're warm and welcoming.

The wind brushes over the back of Jisung’s neck and makes him shiver.

"'M just tired," Jisung lies and puts his hands on his knees.

_Nothing new on my mind,_ he wants to say. _It's always only you._

It's the same garden, almost a month later, and they're under an apple tree. The sun shines on the fruit and they're redder than fresh blood, enticing and juicy.

"You could just boost me up," Jisung complains, arms heavy from the strain. "Or reach for it yourself, see how you fare."

He pouts when Minho only laughs at him.

"Keep jumping," he grins and boops his nose. "You look adorable."

"I just want an apple," Jisung says. "Not to get bullied."

But Minho is _looking_ at him and he can't hide the way his gaze slides all the way down to where Jisung's shirt rides up, the way his cheeks are flushed and pupils wide.

Jisung hates the way these details stand out to him, as if someone took a highlighter and brushed over Minho's body, big thick arrows saying _Here! Take notice! Make conclusions!_

He jumps again anyway.

Jisung's fingers graze the smooth apple but it's just a bit too far.

They're in Minho’s kitchen, and a late autumn storm thunders right behind the windows. It's deep into the night. The yellow light bounces off the empty wine bottle, off Minho's black hair, off his chapped lips. He says something to Jisung and turns back around to stir the simmering pot.

Jisung is almost fully sober already but still too lost in his own head, in the curve of Minho's neck, in the soft cotton folds against Minho's back. In the way he stands, right knee bent slightly, feet planted steadily. 

There are some droplets of red against the floor tiles, already dry. Jisung licks his lips; they stick together and the tongue inside his mouth feels uncomfortable.

He knows of the cupboard next to sink, the bottles delicately stacked up there, has half a mind to take another. He already misses the buzz under his skin.

Minho turns around again and Jisung can tell from the furrow of his brows and the shaky smile that a headache is making itself known to him. He feels the echoes of it in his own head, so he stands up and makes his way to the sink. Fills up a cup with ice cold water. Then again and hands that one to Minho.

"Thank you," Minho's face softens when he takes it. On the cold porcelain, their thumbs overlap for a second or less. Minho's eyes look dark in the dim light, the waterline of his lips lined with the brown-red of wine.

Jisung bites his tongue and smiles.

Outside, the sky lights up for half a second. The kitchen is filled with warmth and the savoury smell of chicken stock. Minho's clothed foot nudges Jisung's as they eat. A cat is sleeping on one of the chairs, curled up into a tight ball. They managed to spill wine on the table too and the red puddles gleam as they dry.

In the fading embers of a party, they sit together on a couch. There are still people laughing in the kitchen, quiet music blanketing the room, TV turned on but muted as one sports team wins and the other loses. 

Jisung finishes a beer, throwing his head back and feeling the droplets on his tongue, then places it on a table in front. He turns to Minho with a wide grin and is met with a twin one.

"You got yours?" 

Jisung nods, taking a deep breath as his fingers find the glossy paper behind him.

"Good. On the count of three?" Minho asks and Jisung giggles. His knee is touching Minho's and he pushes against it, raising an eyebrow.

"What are we, five?" he asks and then goes: _"Onetwothree!"_ and drops his gift on Minho's lap.

"Oh, shut up, that's unfair," Minho laughs, barely seconds behind Jisung. He gestures for Jisung to go first. 

The package in his lap is rectangular and wrapped in golden paper with holographic sparkles, a darker gold bow stuck on a corner. Jisung grips it with trembling fingers, breath bated, and barely wins the fight against wanting to just tear the packaging into shreds, instead finding the seams and pulling them apart.

His breath catches in his throat, mouth falling open, and it's not quite a gasp, but if you were standing a little further, you might think it was.

A notebook lays on his lap, with heavy dark red leather covers, thick with pages after pages. On the top left corner is an engraved _J,_ beautiful and curled. Jisung brushes his fingers against it, feeling the dips and curves under his skin.

"It could stand for Jisung or J.one, whichever you prefer," Minho says softly and Jisung glances up at him for a moment before thumbing the notebook open. The blues and whites from the Christmas lights play in his brown eyes; his gaze is soft and careful and relieved. "I saw your old one falling apart, and I figured…"

The paper is thick and expensive, perfectly white, and Jisung can already imagine staining the pages with black and blue and grey, imprinting words and meaning into them.

"It's a sort of congrats on the job too," Minho continues and Jisung closes the notebook with a dull thud, swallowing hard as he looks up again. "Though I think you should still take me out for dinner with your new paycheck."

In another universe, another Han Jisung leans in at this moment, presses his dry lips against Minho's soft ones, whispers _"It's a date"_ into them.

In this one, this Han Jisung gives Minho a shaky grin and a playful roll of eyes.

"Maybe I will," he says then nods to the gift in Minho's lap. "Your turn."

It's a much smaller box, wrapped in glossy paper with a red plaid pattern and Minho raises an eyebrow at Jisung before getting to work. Jisung watches his delicate fingers carefully pull the packaging apart, heart jumping up to his throat. His fingers unconsciously grip the notebook in his lap. He's starting to doubt the gift he picked out, worrying that he’d chosen wrong.

But it's too late to change anything now anyway; the small dark green box is already in Minho's hands. Jisung can see his brows twitching into a furrow, eyes flicking up for a quick glance from under eyelashes and then the fingers pry the box open.

Inside atop black silk rests a golden bracelet. Minho picks it up, his lips falling open as he takes in a breath, thin fingers gently pinching the golden chain and letting it unfurl fully. The chain itself is delicate and thin and another, even smaller, curls all around it. In carefully picked places, they’re connected by pendants in the shape of leaves in a few differing sizes. The accessory lays in Minho's palm and he raises his widened eyes to Jisung, mouth still slightly ajar.

"You didn't have to," he insists, barely louder than the music. Jisung rolls his eyes and smiles, heartbeat speeding up even as relief floods him.

“Look,” he says and reaches with trembling fingers to turn one of the bigger leaves over to its smoother backside. There, in delicate lettering, is engraved the tiniest _Soonie._ “One for each,” he says, and Minho’s smile widens.

“There’s five,” he states and looks up at Jisung with questioning eyes. His knee twitches next to Jisung’s and only then he realises just how close their faces are. He can feel Minho’s breath against his skin, the lemony smell from the cocktails he’d had. The blue and white flicker in an intricate dance across his brown iris. His breath hitches. Minho’s smile drops.

“Three cats, you,” Jisung says, almost inaudibly. Minho curls his fingers over the bracelet and, because he doesn't move away fast enough, Jisung’s fingers too. “And me.”

In the split second between breaths, a moment of hesitation, a shout sounds out.

“Guys!” Hyunjin runs out of the kitchen, laughter and voice so loud it startles them away from one another, and Jisung brings his hands back to the notebook, leather cool under his burning skin. "You missed the funniest thing!"

Jisung licks his lips and looks at Hyunjin grinning in front of them.

There's regret and annoyance swirling in his chest but over it all, a thick layer of relief lays, so heavy, he can barely breathe.

Jisung doesn't let himself look at Minho for a while, hoping that he never sees it in his eyes, can't read it on his face.

They’re in the city centre, a little away from where most of the crowd gathers. There’s a loud countdown and Felix shouts with it, jumping as it hits one and pulling in as many as he can into a hug. Jisung doesn’t manage to dip out in time and so is crushed against the others, a laughing and shouting mass of elbows hitting sides and heads trying to avoid crashing. 

Minho, who was standing next to him, gets pulled in as well, flush against Jisung’s side. He wraps one arm around Jisung’s waist, tugs him even closer and hides his face in the crook of Jisung's neck. His laughter is warm, and it sneaks in through Jisung’s scarf to brush against his skin. Jisung shivers, and snakes one arm around Minho as well, fingers gripping the softness of his parka.

“Happy New Year,” Minho whispers and Jisung turns his head just so, the others still laughing as they struggle to keep standing. Their cheeks touch and Minho’s soft hair brushes against his temple.

“Happy New Year,” Jisung whispers back almost straight into Minho’s ear, warmth flooding his chest when Minho’s arm tightens around his body.

When they move away, surprisingly without too many bruises, Minho is grinning wide. The fireworks, loud and booming as they go off—though Jisung is deaf to them when Minho is so close—light up Minho's face in every colour of the rainbow, flickering in before being replaced, dancing in the darkness of his pupils. Minho's nose and cheeks are reddened by the biting cold and Jisung watches, fascinated, as a snowflake lands on the tip of his nose.

He turns his head up to find millions of them descending in a slow, meandering swivel and grins like a child. They tangle in Minho’s hair, rest against the tops of his cheekbones and the dark red scarf and time turns the speed down a notch, just enough for Jisung to catch the way a stray white snowflake lands on Minho’s lips right before he licks them.

Felix pokes Jisung’s side and he turns to find most of their friends already wandering off.

“C’mon,” Felix says, a twinkle of laughter in his eyes. “We’re going back to Chan’s for a drink.”

Jisung nods and turns around. In a moment of bravery, he brushes some white dots from Minho’s eyebrow. 

“Let’s go?” he says, quiet, and Minho grins, clasping their gloved palms together.

A white light, too bright and too sharp, flickers over the red, velvety petals. Jisung stares at them for a moment; row after row of wide vases filled with mostly red roses in front of him. Yellow sign that announces a sale.

Jisung bites his lip and taps his foot and digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palm and then walks away. Picks up the wine that Minho requested and takes the long way around the store towards the registers.

There’s roses in the back as well. 

Every aisle is decked out in red and pink hearts and the soft music speaks of romance and desire. Jisung hastens his pace but he can’t make the queue move faster.

He stares at the chocolate display next to him and his fingers itch. He taps his nails against the glass bottle, sighs and picks one bar up. It’s just chocolate. 

It doesn't have to mean anything.

Minho greets him with a wide smile and Jisung laughs when he sees the way Dori leaps closer to greet him. 

“Hey there,” he whispers, heart pounding in his ears so loud, he can barely hear his own words.

He places the wine bottle on the kitchen table, takes a deep breath that fills his lungs with the smell of cooking meat and then turns around to find Minho back at the stove.

"I got some chocolate," he says softly, placing the sweet on the table as well.

"Oh," Minho barely glances over his shoulder. "Dessert! You didn't need to though, I made cheesecake."

"You did?" Jisung comes closer to watch Minho stir. He knocks his shoulder into Jisung's and grins when their eyes meet.

"I saw raspberries on sale and couldn't resist," he winks and Jisung's breath hitches. 

"Sounds amazing."

Minho turns back to the dish and Jisung watches his face. He hums a quiet tune under his breath that Jisung can't quite place. There's a drop of red in a corner of his lips and Jisung smiles a little, wondering how many berries never made it into the dessert.

"What's up?" Minho asks, turning back, and Jisung can see him startle as he takes in just how close they are. His lips tremble a little when Jisung raises a hand. He doesn't let himself look into Minho's eyes, focusing solely on the little red splotch and rubbing his thumb over it until it's gone.

"Had a snack?" he teases and can't help himself from flicking his eyes up to find Minho already looking away.

There's sadness in the way he smiles. Hesitation when he pushes at Jisung's shoulder. Heartache so bright in his eyes, it's like a neon sign lit from behind them.

Jisung laughs and grins and teases more, plays his part perfectly, ignoring the acid in his lungs, burning him up more and more with every breath.

After dinner, Minho takes out the cheesecake and Jisung unwraps the chocolate. He breaks a piece off and puts it near Minho's lips then pulls it away, laughing when Minho frowns.

"Revenge is sweet," he says and eats the piece himself and it's a lie. Ignoring the way Minho's hand twitches on the table turns every inch of his mouth sour. The golden bracelet glints with every move, as if mocking him, as if asking _Can you see it now? Is it still not enough?_

Jisung wonders for a moment when exactly Minho will get tired of this game he keeps playing, this stupid back and forth he can't seem to quit. 

Whether it'll be this week or next or in two months. Or never.

Minho rolls his eyes and feeds Jisung a bite of the cheesecake and it's almost sweet enough to make up for the sourness coating his tongue.

It's already half past ten when they exit the movie theater. The snow is slowly melting and thin rivers glimmer under streetlight. Jisung kicks at the mush as they walk through the half-asleep neighbourhood. The high of the new Avenger movie is still going strong in their veins and Jisung giggles at Minho's impressions, pouts when the elder doesn't react to his. The air smells like upcoming spring and Jisung feels light and warm and floaty.

Before they approach the bus stop, Minho stops them with a gentle hand to Jisung's elbow. Jisung turns to him and his breath catches for a moment; the red light from the crosswalk paints Minho's face in gentle, delicate strokes, highlighting the slope of his nose and the arch of his eyebrows and the rise of his cheekbones. His eyes sparkle with it too, and the light rests right where his skin meets the pink of his lips.

"Yes?" Jisung asks, almost breathless, too aware of Minho's fingers on his arm even through the jacket.

"You look like you're about to pass out," Minho laughs. His voice is carefree, in a way it hasn't been for a little while, and Jisung's heart jumps down to his stomach, taking the air from his lungs with itself. "Wanna come back to mine? It's closer."

"Sure," Jisung nods and the fingers on his elbow tighten. Minho gives him a soft smile. The light changes to green and Jisung wants to kiss it off the curl of Minho's lips.

The bus is empty. They sit together, their thighs touching, shoulders pressed close. Jisung leans his cheek against the cold window, watches streetlights pass, blurry from the speed. Tiny droplets start littering the glass, multiplying until they race down their slanted path, and Jisung closes his eyes.

Pretends he doesn't notice Minho's careful fingers curling over his own as they rest on his knee. Keeps his breathing slow and purposeful. An exhale and an inhale.

The bus stops once, then twice. Jisung keeps himself tethered to the surface, keeps himself awake, if only to let himself soak up all the warmth Minho's palm on his can offer.

Then Minho tightens his fingers, tugs at his hand with purpose.

"Our stop next," he says and Jisung turns his body and slumps against Minho's warmer one. He groans a little. Minho laughs and Jisung feels the way his breath moves over his ear.

"C'mon," Minho tugs at him again and Jisung opens his eyes. Lets him drag him towards the door and then outside, pulls the mask of sleepiness over his face and intertwines their fingers.

Minho turns to look back and Jisung is sure there's surprise in his gaze, but he keeps his eyes down and stumbles onwards, one foot in front of the other.

It's feels like almost giving in, like teetering on the edge and slowly leaning forward. Forgetting to wave your arms and tilt your body back and laugh it off.

It's dark in the streets, tiny needles of rain making light scatter and soften. If you walked a step or two behind them and watched their shoulders touch, their fingers tightly interlocked, you might say it looks like a conclusion. It almost is.

It's really late at night or really early in the morning. A time when the moon is gone but the sun isn't up yet. The trees are still only bare promises of life, and rain beats against the windows, quiet but unrelenting.

Jisung's living room is dark, the only light source an open laptop, its sound turned down so low, the _Friends_ theme is barely a hum.

Minho is sprawled on Jisung's couch, resting his head on the bend of his arm, his face the definition of peaceful sleep. A little lower, nose buried in his chest, rests Jisung's head. On the back of his neck lays Minho's other hand, fingertips slipping away from his hairline. One of Jisung's hands is on Minho's stomach. Their legs are slotted together and the right one of Jisung's is inches away from sliding off the couch. They're breathing steadily, bodies bathed in the dim flickering colours from the laptop's screen.

Then Jisung stirs a little, his face scrunching up into a frown, the hand on Minho's stomach curling into a fist. Some fabric catches between his fingers and he tugs on the shirt unconsciously. One of his legs kicks out, foot hitting the back of the couch. The other twitches and promptly falls to the ground and Jisung slips with it.

He's still dead as a rock, but the movement awakens Minho enough to inspire a change in position. He brings both of his arms down and wraps them around Jisung's torso, tugs him closer.

Jisung sighs into his shirt and regains enough consciousness to pull his leg back up. He shifts around a little, forcing Minho to join him, and then they settle back down.

Jisung's legs now rest between Minho's. His arm wraps around Minho's waist and he takes a handful of Minho's shirt in the back. Minho keeps their bodies pressed tightly together, brushing feathery touches over Jisung's back then and again. Jisung still has his face in Minho's chest and Minho bends down to bury his nose in Jisung's hair. There's a soft smile on his lips.

The laptop moves onto another episode of _Friends,_ but nobody is awake enough to watch any of it.

They awaken to the sun rays slipping through sloppily closed curtains, bodies still pressed close. Jisung stirs first, making Minho tighten his arms just so. He glances up to find the elder seemingly sound asleep, eyelashes fanned against his cheeks, pillowy lips parted just the slightest bit. His shirt is soft under Jisung's fingers, his skin hot where Jisung's cheek touches his arm, his leg heavy on top of Jisung's.

Jisung loosens his hold, tries to shimmy out of the hug and Minho groans, eyes barely opening.

"Let's sleep a little more," he mumbles. Jisung's heart is hammering in his chest. He feels the warmth of the sun on his body, the white-hot heat of where Minho touches him, the coldness of the empty air.

"Gotta pee," he breathes out a lie and Minho frowns a little but raises his arm.

"Will you come back?" Minho asks when Jisung is halfway out of the room. His back is turned to Jisung, so he just pretends the elder asked too late and quietly slips out. The cold air sends shivers down his body. The scorching water he washes his hands in does nothing to warm Jisung again.

They're at a restaurant, the whole friend group. It's getting warm again, so they sit outside on the patio, two tables pushed together. The setting sun plays in the half-full glasses, their empty plates gleaming with a greasy sheen.

Jisung sits between Felix and Minho, gently holding a light pink cocktail in one hand. The ice cubes clatter as he swirls it and he hears them clearer than the conversation around him; distantly aware of Hyunjin's laugh and Changbin's giggles. Minho's chuckles that Jisung can feel coming: their knees are touching and Minho's leg twitches milliseconds before he laughs and it’s a familiar pattern to Jisung.

They say a toast, something sappy about friendship, and Jisung echoes it absentmindedly then downs most of his drink. The ice cubes, now bare, shimmer even prettier in the orange sun rays.

Minho's shoulder bumps into his and Jisung turns, meets his smile with a similar one.

"What?" he asks, quiet, as Felix loudly shares another story. 

"Nothing," Minho shakes his head a little. He has a wine glass in his hand, still halfway full. The sun brightens the wine, makes it glister, ruby-like. It's on Minho's lips too, a single drop that Minho’s quick tongue swipes away. "You're just quiet."

"I'm thinking," Jisung shrugs, then, before Minho and his tipsy smile can ask anything else, lifts the last leftover gulp and a half of his drink. "Shall we have a toast to us?"

"Let's," Minho giggles and tips his glass towards Jisung's. They clink and the ice cubes shake a little, scattering the light even more. Jisung tilts his head back. His top lip goes a little numb from the ice. 

There are a few drops left in Minho's glass, red as blood. The golden bracelet sparkles on his pale wrist. Minho's face is a little flushed, eyes open wide, lips parted as the conversation catches his attention again. His other hand is laying on his thigh and Jisung doesn't let himself think twice about it when he sneaks his chilly fingers down to wrap around Minho's warm palm.

Minho doesn't say a thing, only his knee twitches next to Jisung's but then he laughs at Chan's joke and this time Jisung joins in too.

The sun’s ghostly touch is almost hot against Jisung’s knees where his jeans are ripped. He sits on the balcony of his fifth floor apartment, blinking back even hotter tears, nails biting into his palms, feeling the aftershocks of the fight ripple through his insides. 

A nightingale lands on the railing, tilting its small head at him, and flies away just as fast, spooked by a stray sob that Jisung chokes out. He slams a palm over his mouth, slumps down even harder in the plastic chair, even though the bird was the only creature around to see the tears spilling down his cheeks. They’re pointless, Jisung knows, is well aware it was just a small quarrel, and in a day or two they’ll say their apologies and get back to normal.

Except it doesn’t feel like that at all and the cold anger in Minho’s voice echoes in Jisung’s head, floods his chest and clutches at his lungs. It feels like Jisung overstepping, like Minho getting fed up, like something starting to crumble.

_This is how he’ll give up on you,_ the cruel whisper in his head goes wild, and Jisung feels nauseous at the misplaced joy that laces it. _Isn’t that what you've been waiting for?_

The doorbell rings once, twice, keeps going until Jisung lifts his head and stands up, legs shaky and unsure. He stumbles to the front door, too tired to be concerned about his appearance, the swollen eyes and wet face, the hiccupping leftover sobs. Can’t be bothered to pull up even the facade of annoyance when he opens the door; he feels vulnerable and raw, like a healing wound being pulled open. 

Jisung freezes when he comes face to face with Minho, eyes red rimmed and lips quivering, a fearful look that pulls at Jisung’s heart even more.

“I came to apologize,” Minho says, his voice unstable and quiet. “For the things I told you. I didn't mean a word.”

“I didn’t either,” Jisung whispers back, fingers clutching at the wood, his eyes dropping down to the yellow hoodie Minho is wearing and the way the sleeves come down to the tips of his fingers. “I got really mad and said things just to hurt you, but I didn’t mean them, I promise. Not a single one. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Minho shuffles half a step closer. Jisung stands still as a statue in his doorway. “I tried to hurt you too and that’s not fair of me. You told me those things in confidence. I have no right to use them against you.”

“Neither do I.” Jisung takes in a shaky breath. Minho is reaching a hesitant hand towards him but before it can make contact, he lifts his head and looks the elder in his eyes. His throat burns with the need to spill, even if he's not sure of the words yet. But he's desperate, and he's tired, and he's terrified of Minho getting bored, so Jisung tries anyway. “Minho, there’s something I—”

“No,” Minho says and though his voice is trembling, it has a sense of certainty in it that keeps Jisung’s mouth shut. “Not now, not like this.”

His hand comes to rest on Jisung’s shoulder and Jisung feels relief flood him. He chokes out a half laugh, half sob before slumping into Minho’s arms. Minho wraps his other arm around him too and Jisung clutches at the soft yellow fabric as hard as he can. 

Once he starts again, Jisung cries and cries, barely registering Minho walking them backwards and towards the couch, not sparing a thought to whether he should even be crying so much.

He weeps not only for their fight and the immediate hurt but for all the heartache from before, all the heartache that surely will come in the future; for all those times he made the wrong choice, all those two-step-forward-one-step-backs, all the moments he wasted.

Minho runs gentle fingers over his hair and Jisung can feel burning tears on the back of his own neck, the tremors of the body under him and so he holds on tighter.

There’s a soft _“I know”_ whispered into Jisung’s hair and a soundless apology Jisung mouths back.

Something is crumbling inside him still. The world outside goes dark and cold. They stay warm inside each other’s arms.

The petals of the apple trees are twirling down towards the ground, spurred on by the gusts of wind. It’s a little chillier than the bright sun and clear skies make it seem and Jisung clutches the cup with hot tea in his hands, watching white dots flutter from behind the window.

By the stove, Minho flips pancakes, humming along to the pop song on the radio. Jisung can see a pale, faint reflection of his figure, the blue shirt he’s wearing, the white sweatpants. He takes another sip of the tea and places the cup on the windowsill then pads towards Minho, reaching a hand towards the stack of pancakes on the counter.

“Uh-uh,” Minho pushes his arm away. “Not yet. Be a good boy and pull out the jam.”

“But Han Jisung is a very bad boy,” Jisung sticks his tongue out and holds Minho’s wrist with one hand, swiftly grabbing the top pancake with the other one. It’s still hot and burns his fingertips but Jisung pretends it doesn’t, already running away from Minho. “Han Jisung doesn’t listen to rules!” he shouts and laughs when Minho leaps at him, frown turning into laughter when Jisung stuffs the whole pancake into his mouth, chewing frantically.

“Pancake thief!” he scoffs and shakes the spatula at Jisung then returns to the pan. “One of these days I won’t let you in anymore.”

“Oh no!” Jisung fake gasps then laughs when Minho glares at him. He walks to the cupboard and pulls out the jam Minho requested, then forks and knives and plates too. “All your threats are empty, old man.”

He only laughs harder when Minho grumbles, placing the last pancakes on the plate and carrying them over to the table.

“Keep calling me that and I _will_ carry them out,” he threatens, sitting down, and Jisung giggles even more. The jam is strawberry, bright red. It glints in the square patch of sun that covers a part of the table. Jisung stares as Minho’s hand enters it, well-manicured and soft looking, the golden bracelet shimmering in the light, and he scoops some of the jam up, carefully spreads it on his pancakes. He follows the hand all the way to the grip of the fork, the stab of the bite, the rise towards Minho’s pink lips.

“Are you not hungry anymore?” the lips form and Jisung blinks himself out of it and back to his own plate.

“As if,” he snorts, hurrying to catch up. 

The teacup goes cold and stays forgotten until Minho discovers it later in the evening. He chastises Jisung when he comes back to the living room from microwaving popcorn.

Jisung just shrugs and blinks at him innocently, grabbing a handful of the snack and turning back to the movie.

There are barely any petals left on the apple trees. The wind quiets down as the moon rises over the quiet garden and two boys, asleep on a couch, their legs tangled together, the empty bowl of popcorn on the table and the cold tea on the windowsill.

They’re in a restaurant, a single white orchid between them, a dim lamp over their heads.

There’s wine in their glasses and laughter in their eyes and fingertips touching on the beige tablecloth. Minho feeds Jisung a bite of his dish and Jisung does the same. They order a dessert to split, their cheeks flushed pink, eyes sparkling with delight. They trade stories they already know and the ones they haven’t told yet, reminisce about things past and dream about things yet to come.

It’s a thing they do every month and so, and yet today it feels completely new. Warmth floods Jisung’s chest when he brushes his fingers over Minho’s palm, higher and higher until they come to rest at his pulse, next to the golden bracelet. He can feel Minho’s heartbeat fluttering under the skin, like the wings of a hummingbird, and his own matches it beat for beat.

Minho smiles at him, soft and tender, and wraps his own fingers around Jisung’s wrist.

The subdued lighting above them bounces off Jisung’s hair, off Minho’s black silk shirt, off the pale rose wine in their glasses, and makes them glow. And if you were sitting at a table parallel, if you were a waiter walking past, if you glanced through a window and somehow glimpsed them, the overflowing love in their eyes would leave no question in your head, no space for doubt that these people are lovers, celebrating their relationship’s existence. And you will be right, soon. But not quite yet.

They’re sitting on a porch swing in Minho’s garden. There’s a bowl with fresh strawberries between them and big, white clouds littered across the sky, coloured pink and lilac by the setting sun.

Jisung takes a berry, round and juicy, and watches as Minho leans in to bite it, eyebrows furrowed the slightest bit in concentration. He laughs a little and pops the rest into his own mouth.

Minho pushes his foot into the ground, makes them move again. The slight breeze brushes hair from Jisung’s forehead. He closes his eyes and leans back, fingers on the painted wood, warm under his touch. 

The air chills as the sun drops lower and Jisung watches birds through his eyelashes, circling in the sky, settling on the power lines. Minho holds a strawberry up to his lips, pressing a little until Jisung opens his mouth and bites into it.

"Something on your mind?" Minho asks. The sky is slowly dipping into darker purple hues. His brown eyes are serene. Fond. Jisung’s fingers twitch.

He thinks of the pages upon pages in the red leather notebook, of the crossed-out sentences and scribbled out words. Of all the ways he tried to mould the language into being what he needs it to be and all the ways it fought back. Of every thought he wrote down only to decide it wasn’t enough.

And then he thinks of the boy besides him and the feeling in his chest, his heart shaking like leaves on an apple tree, like the wings of a bird, like the pull and push of the stormy ocean waves. He thinks about how any word can be enough, if it’s said to the right person. How there is no one more right for him than Minho.

“You,” Jisung answers, and the truth is sweeter than the berries on his tongue. He feels something bubble inside him, like there are flowers in his lungs, his heart, his stomach, finally exploding into bloom, as if in a nature documentary about a spring after the longest winter. Their petals are bright and soft as silk and they rise up until they spill from between his lips in the form of syllables and words. “Only you, always you. From the moment the sun rises and until there are no more stars visible.”

“Oh,” Minho answers, but it’s not an exclamation of surprise or shock. It’s a word as delicate as the petals in Jisung’s mouth, a sigh of relief, an exhale of a long-held breath.

Jisung’s fingers twitch again so he lifts them, places his palm on Minho’s cheek. It’s cooled by the breeze and yet Jisung’s body feels white-hot at the contact. He leans in, just a little. There’s some strawberry juice on a corner of Minho’s mouth.

“I think about kissing you so much,” Jisung confesses. “So often, that in my dreams, it’s just a habit between us.”

“Oh,” Minho says again and blinks at Jisung, tilting his head into his touch. “You dream about us?”

“I do,” Jisung lets out a breathy, nervous laughter. “Almost every night, the most mundane things you could imagine. You cooking or gardening. Us traveling.”

“We could take a trip this summer,” Minho smiles softly. “Go to Europe, visit museums, wander around. Or maybe go somewhere beachy and tropical, enjoy the heat.”

“Whatever you want,” Jisung laughs and leans in a little more, his breath growing erratic with the anticipation. “It’s all in your hands. My heart, my life, my soul. I’m giving it all away.”

“You sure you can trust me with that?” Minho grins a little wider, fingers curling around Jisung’s wrist. His other hand comes to rest on Jisung’s thigh, fingers heavy on the muscle. 

“Of course I am,” Jisung whispers. “Of course I do.”

“Maybe you should keep them to yourself still,” their noses brush and Jisung can feel Minho’s words ghost over his skin. “I’ll do well with half, or a quarter, or even just a molecule.”

“How could that ever be enough? Wouldn't you want more?” Jisung asks. He’s growing impatient and yet Minho’s eyes look so pretty from up close that he almost forgets about the lips he’s gravitating towards. They’re deep and dark and yet so bright with adoration, overflowing with affection.

“You could never be not enough,” Minho mumbles and at last, finally, lets their lips connect. 

There’s a beat of silence where Jisung stands still and then he crumbles forwards. He brings his other hand up too and cups Minho’s face, pulling it as close as he can. They kiss slowly and Minho’s lips are soft and yet unyielding; he tastes sweet and sour like the first harvest of strawberries. He smells a little like the rain, like the colour red, like accidentally falling asleep while watching a movie. His kisses make Jisung dizzy. Even a little drunk, as if he's tipping back a glass of expensive red wine and not brushing his tongue over Minho's. 

He can’t get enough, chasing after Minho's lips, silently begging for more.

Then Minho lifts the hand from Jisung’s wrist up to his hair and pulls at it and it makes Jisung gasp. He tries to press in closer, mind going foggy as Minho licks even deeper into his mouth. 

The bowl between them digs into their hips and Minho pulls back, squeezing Jisung’s thigh. His lips are wet and reddened and his cheeks are flushed. He stares at Jisung with gaze so filled with longing, it makes him shiver; his pupils are so wide, his eyes look black.

"I think about you too," Minho speaks up, startling Jisung back into reality. His voice is low but laced with so much genuine joy that Jisung's heart breaks apart, once and then again. "When you're with me and even more when we're apart. Every waking second, I wonder what you're up to. And then…" Minho swallows, his gaze dropping, and the hand on Jisung's thigh lifts only to land in Jisung's palm. Their fingers intertwine, so tight not even fate could pull them apart. 

"I think about you even more when we're together, it seems. Every particle of me attuned to your existence; it'd be a little sad, maybe, but you're so beautiful, so amazing, that I consider it a privilege instead."

"Minho—" Jisung chokes out and then kisses him, because he can. And before he fully pulls back, he litters light kisses over his soft cheeks, on his nose, on the back of the hand he's holding. He hopes his lips leave Minho's skin burning, the way Minho's touch lights up every inch of his.

"I'm just really happy to be with you, Jisung," Minho says, lifting his eyes again. And they are happy, but it's a threadbare curtain and Jisung can see the doubt shining through. "Next to you, in any way you'd let me. For as long as you want me."

There's no biting back the words and, for once, Jisung doesn't hesitate, desperate to have Minho sure, to have him aware.

"I love you," he says, loud and firm, and squeezes Minho's fingers. "In every way possible, I love you. I always did."

Minho giggles then, eyes blanketed with the kind of relief that Jisung once hid. The kind that Jisung feels right now and isn't afraid to show anymore.

"I love you too," Minho answers, leaning in closer. "In so many ways that I must have invented new ones."

Jisung raises an eyebrow at him and Minho smirks before closing the distance and kissing him again.

The sun has long since set and the street lights have come on, but neither of them notice it for just a moment longer. The swing moves lightly, the bowl with berries a little too close to the edge. The wind rises up before slowing back down, as if the whole universe has breathed out in relief and then a silence sets over the world. It's comfortable and welcome. 

Jisung moves the strawberries and presses his thigh into Minho's, their hands still intertwined as they lay in Jisung's lap. Minho places his head on Jisung's shoulder and Jisung presses his cheek into his hair and then his lips. 

The sky, high above them, is a velvety dark blue. The stars are coming in, barely visible with the soft yellow light that washes over the surroundings, but Jisung doesn't mind.

He can find all the galaxies he could ever want in Minho's eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> it starts with a garden and ends in it too and that's what we call Consistency!  
> please tell me your thoughts uwu  
> you could also come talk to me on [twt](https://twitter.com/squishiesungie) or [cc!](https://curiouscat.me/squishiesungie)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] only you, always you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20296339) by [the24thkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the24thkey/pseuds/the24thkey)




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